Necare Amor
by PennythePyro
Summary: This story starts with a death, as do most interesting mysteries, but who is the dead woman- and whodunnit? Okay, I'm done writing this stupid, self-glorifying blurb. RR, and please don't be afraid to criticize me if the story sucks. I want the truth!


Necare Amor by PennythePyro  
  
(The scene opens with Penny, angelinhell, evilemmylou, and Erik all stuck in a burning barn somewhere in Northern California. I'm well aware that this makes no sense, but I am the fanfiction author and I can do anything! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!! Anyway, back to the story-)  
  
Penny: I'm not really a pyro, I just say I am to get attention.  
  
Erik: Oh, really. So why are we stuck in this building?  
  
Angelinhell: Yeah, Penny, you've really burned yourself into a corner this time.  
  
Evilemmylou: What do you mean, burned herself?! We're ALL stuck in here!!!!!!!!!  
  
Angelinhell: Well, look on the bright side: at least WE'RE not on fire.  
  
*Spark falls from ceiling and ignites evilemmylou's hair.*  
  
Evilemmylou: *throws up hands in gesture of futility* How can it get any-  
  
Angelinhell: No! Don't say it!  
  
Evilemmylou: -worse?  
  
*Flaming rafter falls on evilemmylou's head.*  
  
Evilemmylou: *from beneath rafter* Satisfied?  
  
Angelinhell: *waves Erik over* Come on, we've got to get this off her.  
  
Penny: While they're occupied, let me tell you a little about myself. I'm a Pyro with a capital P, and don't you forget it! I am also the-  
  
Angelinhell: *in background* One-  
  
Penny: *totally undisturbed* -alter ego of angelinhell, basically her with a different e-mail address. For those of you who have noticed our-  
  
Angelinhell: *in background (again)* Two-  
  
Penny: -similar disclaimer styles, you should have already guessed that. If you have, then the mystery at hand should present no problem for you. The story is about-  
  
Angelinhell: Three!  
  
*Flaming rafter flies off of evilemmylou's head and onto Penny's.*  
  
Angelinhell: For those of you who actually wanted to know what the story was about, either READ THE STORY (which I assume you're going to do if you've gotten this far) or READ THE SUMMARY (which I assume you've already done unless you're one of my friends, in which case you will read the story).  
  
Evilemmylou: My hands are on fire. Are we worried?  
  
Angelinhell: *looks around flaming barn* I suggest you go read the story while you're still extinguished, at least until I clean all this up. *surveys damage* Or something. Oh, and by the way, for those of you who don't speak Latin, the title means "To Kill Love" or something like that. You'll have to ask Penny for a complete translation, and I don't think she's going to be available for a while.  
  
Evilemmylou: *stares at flaming rafter* You got that one right.  
  
Angelinhell: So I have to do the disclaimer. Neither Penny nor I, her alter ego, own anything to do with POTO or any other references we may make. This story is fictional; any similarity to existing people and/or situations is purely accidental. We are not responsible for the disclaimers.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
There was a scream backstage- only one. The lamps flickered out for a second, then came back on again, their glow illuminating the passageway once more. A silence like no other pervaded the dark corridors of the Paris Opera House, and several of the younger performers huddled, frightened, against the skirts of Madame Giry as the matronly woman approached the door of the dressing room from whence the scream had come.  
  
"Oh, please," Meg whispered from behind her mother, "oh, please, Maman, don't say it's Scheherazade's room... She's so kind to us..."  
  
The other girls murmured agreement; Madame Giry hushed them. "No sense asking me not to make it the way it is," she said harshly. "If it was Keiran Taylor, there's nothing I can do about it, and if it's not, there's no sense in worrying."  
  
"Her name is Scheherazade," the little Russian girl, Tanya, said under her breath, but Madame Giry ignored her and pushed open the door.  
  
Lying on the floor, in a puddle of her own blood, was the young, beautiful Irish immigrant known as Scheherazade. Meg screamed. Tanya fainted. But Madame Giry simply sighed.  
  
"I wonder why he did it," was all she said. And no matter how much they asked her, she would say nothing else.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
"So we agree. It had to have been him."  
  
"Ye-"  
  
"No."  
  
The two managers looked up from their avid and rather pointless discussion to see the Persian standing in the doorway.  
  
"What do you-"  
  
"Armand, let him speak. After all, what have we got to lose? We won't be able to convince the police that the cause of Taylor's murder was a ghost who lives beneath the stage, will we? At least let's have an alternate view." Firmin Richard was always calm.  
  
Armand Moncharmin sighed. "All right, Firmin." He turned to the Persian. "But you had better have a good explanation, and you had better make it fast."  
  
The man nodded and walked in, silently shutting the door behind him. "I don't want to see a friend of mine convicted of a murder he did not commit on circumstantial evidence."  
  
"Do you have a better explanation?" Armand fumed.  
  
The Persian shook his head. "But I know it wasn't Erik. It's not his style. He doesn't like messy deaths; he's killed in my presence and never has he used a knife. For all I know, he doesn't own one; if I didn't know better I'd say he didn't know how to use one. And this looks like it wasn't planned; it looks like a spur of the moment thing. If Erik didn't expect to kill anyone, he would only have brought the weapon he knows best, reacts best with- his lasso."  
  
"This is simply a nay-saying with evidence that we have no proof of. You also say nothing as to who you suspect. This is not helpful! We have no way of knowing if we can trust your character; we barely know you. Give us some proof, man!" Armand was definitely overreacting, but he was, after all, telling the truth, Firmin thought. They HAD no proof. They had no proof that it WAS the ghost, after all, but that seemingly impossible explanation was the only one they had.  
  
The Persian hung his head. "I have none."  
  
"Then get out."  
  
The man left, closing the door quietly behind him. But he had done what he had intended to do: seeds of doubt were quickly germinating and growing in the managers' minds. Now they were truly confused.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
As Amin was exiting the office, he was confronted by a spectral figure.  
  
"Why, hello, Erik. I didn't exactly expect to find you here, but after all, when have you been predictable?"  
  
"What did they want?" As always, he was direct and to the point.  
  
"They think it was you. I did my best to persuade them otherwise, but they think it was you."  
  
"Wait, back up. What was me?"  
  
"Scheherazade's dead, Erik."  
  
Erik frowned. "She had better not be."  
  
Amin looked at him, not comprehending. "What do you mean?"  
  
"She's with me."  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Penny: Cliffhanger! Haven't done one of those in a while!  
  
Erik: Just don't... set anything on fire.  
  
Penny: *pouts*  
  
Angelinhell: Don't think that's getting you anywhere.  
  
Evilemmylou: *struggling against pout* No, Em, don't... even... think... *hand strays towards lighter* about... Here. *hands lighter to Penny*  
  
Angelinhell: Bad idea, Em.  
  
Penny: *grins insanely and jumps around room in fit of joy*  
  
Erik: Now you've done it. *chases Penny around room and attempts to get lighter*  
  
Penny: *accidentally sets drapes on fire*  
  
Angelinhell: Do the disclaimers always have to end in flames? Penny: *nods emphatically*  
  
Angelinhell: *sighs*  
  
Evilemmylou: P.S. Amin is Farsi for 'honest.'  
  
Angelinhell: Thank you for that valuable piece of information. Now go away!  
  
Evilemmylou: Of course. *bows out*  
  
Angelinhell: *sighs* *again* 


End file.
